A person who is afraid to live is already dead.
A person who does not fear death is alive.
A person who is afraid to love exposes themselves to suffering.
A person who loves themselves will always be alone.
A person who seeks the meaning of life has already found it.
A person who blames themselves for everything is worse than an executioner.
A person who speaks the truth is needed by no one.
A person who thinks too much is considered sick by others.
A person who fears themselves does not know what they are capable of.
A person who prepares for everything will not be ready at the most opportune moment.
A person who subjects themselves to suffering is truly alive.
A person who drinks a lot is happy only until they hit rock bottom.
One who indulges their weaknesses is human.
The one who deceives the most is often listened to the most.
Life is what is given to us at birth.
The greatest mystery is the human being.
I am the last human.
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 7:28 PM UTC
Sweeping and unprecedented changes engulfed the world, heralding the end of the Middle Ages. Once resplendent, the Byzantine Empire—the heir to the Eastern Roman Empire, where the names of illustrious emperors once thundered—gradually surrendered to the relentless tide of time, yielding to eastern powers hungry for global dominion.
Spain reigned supreme across the Americas, unveiling new lands; yet even there, beneath the veil of the unknown, calamities lurked. The Columbian Exchange, like a sinister specter, swept through the colonies, spreading disease and reaping countless lives.
During this era, the Church solidified its dominion over the masses, particularly among the uneducated and impoverished. People, desperate to save what they believed were their sinful souls from the fires of hell, clung to prayer. Prayer became their sacred shield, a fragile barrier against terror and invisible doom.
By 1517, Martin Luther boldly challenged the sale of indulgences, laying bare the corruption festering within this practice. Yet prior to this awakening, the wealthy had readily purchased indulgences—formal pardons of sin, paid for with the bright chime of golden coins. Thus, the Church grew fat upon the fears of the faithful and their desperate yearning for divine mercy.
The sack of Constantinople in April 1204, during the Fourth Crusade, stood as a grim testament to the ********** of faith and the greed that consumed noble causes. Crusades, once inspired by lofty ideals, degenerated into a lust for power. The rallying cry "Deus vult!" rang in the hearts of knights who, abandoning plows and fields, marched across burning sands in heavy armor, seeking glory and absolution through the slaughter of those deemed "spawn of hell."
Yet beneath the pious rhetoric of salvation, the campaigns devolved into atrocities beyond human conscience. Plundering, ****** and the burning of innocents accused of witchcraft became the haunting legacy of that era.
In the shadowy corners of a world shrouded by religious dogma, secret plots and false crusades flourished. Entire villages were razed, their treasures gathered with the grim rhythm of a war drum.
The Church, while preaching mercy and salvation, was ensnared in a maelstrom of intrigue and avarice. The clink of gold silenced the voice of conscience; the ministers of faith, tasked with leading souls to light, often slithered into the darkness of deceit.
Under the banners of charity and faith loomed the dark shadow of the Inquisition. The world blazed with pyres, consuming those accused of heresy—often without evidence—where fear and faith became instruments of ruthless oppression.
Warriors, once humble tillers of the land, now shed blood upon the "holy soil," their deeds declared acts of divine justice. The clash of steel, the rustle of robes, and the cries of the fallen rose into a dreadful anthem opposing the simple dignity of honest labor.
Amid this storm of contradictions, men purchased deliverance from their sins, while prayers, like an endless river, flowed into the darkened cathedrals. In this "psychotropic" dance of sin and sanctity, ancient chants mingled with the sonorous echo of gold.
Thus, caught in the iron grip of fear and faith, the world trudged forward, leaving behind a trail of blood, gold, and ash.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 2:53 PM UTC
What a beautiful month it is today!
Yet it is beautiful only for me, for there is no one else with me to share this splendor—a beauty that lights up this cold night and illuminates everything around.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 3:05 PM UTC
Days pass, nights pass.
In the silence of the night, where shadows dance,
I find solace in dreams that grow ever stronger.
I wander this world as a prisoner of hope,
And with every dream, my heart finds a home.
I'll make myself a cup of tea and lie down—I won't get up; why should I?
For I, a captive of dreams, need nothing but a dream
in which I believe with all my heart.
Perhaps someday—or even right now—it may come true;
but most likely, I will continue to dream...
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 1:03 PM UTC
Reveries of bygone years torment my soul.
What use is it to recall what has long been forgotten?
And yet, time and again I remember what has long lost all meaning,
Exhausting myself with the same bitter tears,
Pondering what was and what will be.
Ah—away with it all!
What sense is there in recalling what has long been forgotten?
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 12:45 PM UTC